The Topaz Brooch

by Katherine Lowry Logan

  She leaned closer and looked Lockyer in the eye, even though she had to stretch her neck to do it. “How will you look into the eyes of your wounded men or their widows or children and tell them that?” The question was rhetorical, and she didn’t expect him to answer, but she wasn’t through yet.

  “Look on the bright side, Captain. America’s five commissioners”—she counted on her fingers—“John Quincy Adams, Henry Clay, James A. Bayard, Jonathan Russell, and Albert Gallatin and”—she pointed at Lockyer, “Britain’s minor officials”—she studied her nails before glancing up at him again—“will be very forward-looking when they write the treaty. And, hallelujah, it will lead to peace between America and Great Britain that will last for centuries. Is it not worth waiting for six weeks to hear the truth?”

  If Lockyer could kill her with his eyes, she’d be flat on the floor in cardiac arrest. “Who are you, Mistress Malone. A fortune-teller? A seer? A sibyl? Do you have a deck of cards, or do you read the dregs of a coffee cup?”

  He’s serious.

  Lafitte squeezed her knee under the table again, sending her another message. But what was it this time?

  Lockyer’s hand shook as he pushed his goblet toward her. “Or maybe you read the sediment at the bottom of a wine glass. Please,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Read mine.”

  Lafitte didn’t remove his hand. What the hell was going on? “I’m all out of predictions this evening, Captain Lockyer. Catch me tomorrow.”

  Angry lines appeared around Lockyer’s mouth. His eyes shone almost black as he glared at Lafitte, and his voice dropped to a dangerous snarl. “You have one week to respond to the offer.”

  Her irritation blossomed, and she had to needle him one last time. “And you have six to discover this is all for naught.”

  Lafitte withdrew his hand, leaving a warm imprint on her thigh again. He checked the time on his pocket watch. “You have ten minutes to catch the tide, captain.” Then to Dominique, he asked, “Would you have someone escort these officers to their boats?”

  Dominique waved his arm toward the doorway. “Shall we go, gentlemen?”

  Lockyer and the other officers strode out of the room while Billie stood and applauded. “Bravo. Bravo.” Then she picked up her goblet and saluted Lafitte. “Well done, sir. Everyone followed the script beautifully. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to bed. You know, although the history books don’t mention me, I thought I played my part admirably.”

  “No one was acting, mon Capitaine Malone, except you.” He put down his goblet and clapped. “Nonetheless, you were brilliant. I don’t know if anything you said was true, but Captain Lockyer was shaking in his boots. So,” he said, flipping his leg over the arm of the chair, “what happens if he sits in the bay for six weeks, besides annoying us?”

  She sat on the edge of her chair and flashed him a sweet, beguiling smile. “I thought we were done with tonight’s entertainment. Is this an encore performance?”

  He rose up like a mountain with muscles made of boulders too massive for a person to move, and a corded neck to match. “Answer my question,” he demanded. “What happens?”

  “Okay, I’ll play. You know this, but I’ll tell you anyway. The US Senate will unanimously approve the treaty on February 16, 1815. President Madison will exchange ratification papers with a British diplomat in Washington on the seventeenth and proclaim peace on the eighteenth. It will then all be over, and Lockyer will sail for home, because by then, Napoleon will have escaped from Elba and rekindled the European wars.”

  Lafitte doubled down on his glare. She was toughening up to it, but it still made her shake like a bad PTSD attack. “But what of the battle for New Orleans?” he asked.

  “Without your artillerists and cannons, General Jackson will lose.”

  “What happens if I help the general?”

  “He’ll grant you and your men pardons, you’ll sail off into the sunset, and New Orleans will always consider you a hero. Eventually, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop on the corner of Bourbon Street and St. Philip Street will become a National Historic Landmark. So how does that make you feel?”

  He smiled a handsome, perfect grin. It was sweet and sexy, and it hit her with the force of a two-by-four. Wham! She didn’t want him to smile at her like that. She’d prefer he growled. It was easier to hate him than to see him as he was right now—a man with complicated layers, each one more intriguing than the last.

  Lafitte crossed the room to a desk, opened a drawer with a key, and removed something she couldn’t see. He returned to her side, leaned close, letting his warm breath tease the back of her neck. Just when she was about to ask what the hell he was up to, he sailed her driver’s license onto the table like a professional card dealer in Vegas.

  She scooped it up, glanced at it, and patted her hair. “I should get my picture retaken wearing this tiara, don’t you think?”

  Lafitte folded his arms, and every muscle somehow displayed itself, even those hidden by his shirt and jacket, and the closeness of his body turned her breaths into shallow gasps.

  “Where do you think you are, mon Capitaine?”

  Not in Vegas, that’s for sure.

  She forced herself to breathe normally—inhale, exhale, and repeat. “Will you call me Billie? Everyone else does. And this whole mon Capitaine thing is getting old. I feel like I should be saluting.” She tossed her license on the table.

  He gave her a closed-lip smile as if to say he didn’t care what she wanted.

  She refilled her wine glass for one more drink before she went to bed. “Are you going to take me to New Orleans in the morning?”

  He picked up the letters Captain Lockyer left on the table. “I have to take these to Governor Claiborne. It will be tricky getting into the city since it’s under martial law, but I can do it. If I take you, you have to promise not to make a scene, or we could end up in the Cabildo with my brother.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll behave.” She’d promise him anything to get off this goddamn island.

  There was a flash of surprise before his face lost all expression. Then he stared with icy speculation and slammed his fist on the table, much louder than Dominique had. The dishes rattled, and Billie nearly jumped out of her skin.

  “Okay. Okay.” She raised both hands in appeasement. “I promise. What time do you want to leave?”

  “Daybreak. I’ll have warm clothes brought up for you. It gets cold in the bayous at night.”

  “Nuh-uh. Does this mean we aren’t driving?”

  Smoke almost puffed out of Lafitte’s ears. Oops. She didn’t think he would hurt her again, but she had to remember he was capable of anything. Her best move was not to anger him.

  “If you’re serious about going by boat, I’d prefer to travel in trousers and tall boots”—she pointed at his feet—“like yours.” She gave him a faux smile. “If a snake slithers across my path, I’d prefer it takes a bite out of leather instead of my skin.”

  He held her gaze for far too long—until seconds seemed to string between them for hours—but she didn’t look away.

  “If you had dressed as you are now, I would have treated you like the lady you are, not the whore I assumed you were.” He gave her a faint smile tinged with melancholy, and shook his head, but said no more. He returned her driver’s license to the desk drawer and locked it.

  His confession and the sadness in his voice confused both her heart and her brain, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. “Jean…thank you for tonight. I’ve never felt like a queen before.”

  “Good night, mon Capitaine. Remember your promise. If what you say is true, we can’t afford to make mistakes.”

  There was no humor in the hard line of his mouth or the narrow slash of white teeth. He tucked the key into a pocket and strode out of the room, leaving her there alone, replaying the conversations. Okay, maybe she screwed up the reenactment.

  Then she thought about Lockyer’s reaction. She’d been trained to pick up on minute changes in
behavior. But even if she hadn’t, she would’ve noticed how his breathing quickened along with his anger, despite attempts to disguise his emotions.

  And then Lafitte said that no one was acting but her.

  The man was insane. She blew it off and headed toward the bedroom. But down deep lurked the same odd feeling she had before. Lafitte seemed so authentic. For that to be true, though, she had to be in a different century.

  And her brain refused to believe it.

  Traveling through time was impossible. Period. Tomorrow they were leaving for New Orleans, and this nightmare would finally come to an end.

  24

  New Orleans (1814)—Rick

  Rick and Philippe Fontenot walked out into the dreary afternoon, giving a quick nod to the soldier who had jerked Rick around. “Where do you live?” Rick asked.

  Fontenot settled his hat atop his head. “On Dumaine Street. Why?”

  “I thought we’d talk about your wife’s health, and your residence would be the best place to have that conversation,” Rick said.

  “I’d rather not. If I brought a stranger home to discuss Rhona’s health, it would upset her. Let’s talk while we walk.”

  Rick chewed on his bottom lip. He wanted to dip slowly into this conversation. Fontenot had probably given up hope of ever going home, and discovering that was all about to change might be a shock to his system. Even though Fontenot hadn’t mentioned his health, his limp and heavy reliance on the cane indicated a weakness on his left side.

  “My traveling companions are waiting for me at the Place d’Armes. Do you mind walking in that direction?”

  “My home’s not far from there.” Fontenot pulled a timepiece out of his waistcoat and checked the time. “You mentioned you might be able to help my wife, but you’re not a physician. Unless you’re trying to sell a quack remedy or panacea, I don’t know what you think you can do for her.” He tucked the watch back into the pocket. “So what’s on your mind, Mr. O’Grady?”

  Rick decided to jump right in and see where the conversation went. “I just arrived, and my sense of direction isn’t so sharp.” He stopped and glanced up and down the street. “I’m confused. Which way to Jackson Square?”

  Fontenot’s eyebrows shot up, but his tone was measured when he said, “There is no Jackson Square in New Orleans.”

  Rick scratched the side of his face, going for nonchalance. “I misspoke. I was referring to the square where the general’s soldiers train.”

  Fontenot’s eyebrows lowered, and a suspicious expression replaced the look of surprise. “I doubt anyone else will call it that for years.”

  “It’s the perfect location to honor the general,” Rick said. “Don’t you think? The area is above sea level. Even if a storm surge breaches the levees and floodwalls and becomes the worst engineering disaster in the United States, the French Quarter won’t flood.”

  “I doubt the city will experience that kind of flood in this century or the next.”

  “You’re probably right,” Rick said. “That would make it two thousand and something, right?”

  They reached the end of the block with Mr. Fontenot leaning heavily on his cane. “Two thousand and five,” he said in a hushed breath.

  “August,” Rick said.

  Fontenot rotated on his good leg and glared at Rick. “Stop dancing around names and dates, Mr. O’Grady, and tell me who the hell you are.”

  Rick balanced on the balls of his feet, and his arms hung loosely at his sides, ready to grab Fontenot if he wobbled from shock. Much like the way he stood ready for McBain to react a few days earlier.

  “I’m a former Marine, former NYPD detective, and current president of Montgomery Winery…” Now, this was the kicker, the confirmation that what Fontenot was struggling to believe was, indeed, accurate. “…in Napa, California and”—Rick hitched his mouth into a one-sided grin—“a traveler like yourself.”

  Fontenot flattened himself against the building and slowly slid down the wall until he squatted at the base where it abutted the sidewalk. “I don’t…believe it.” His face blanched as he looked up at Rick. “How’d you find me?”

  Rick dropped his duffel and squatted next to Fontenot. “We didn’t know where you were, but we were pretty sure Billie was here. So we came, hoping to find the three of you. We thought she would be easier to locate. I landed”—Rick made air quotes—“near the general’s office, decided to go inside to meet him and offer my services, and found you instead.”

  Fontenot dropped his head in his hand while gripping the cane for support with the other one. “Why now? Why not ten years ago? We’ve lost so much time, and Rhona is so sick. Modern medicine might not be able to…”

  “Don’t give up hope,” Rick said quickly. “Since you left, researchers have made significant treatment breakthroughs in cancer treatments. We’ll find the best specialists for her.”

  “We won’t have insurance when we go back. We probably won’t even have a home.”

  Rick wasn’t about to have that discussion with Fontenot. That was too much for him to handle right now. “Don’t worry about money or housing or anything else. MacCorp has resources out the wazoo. You’re part of the MacKlenna Clan now, and we take care of our own.”

  Rick had to get Fontenot off the street before they drew too much attention. “Come on. Let’s go find my friends.” He helped Fontenot to his feet but held on until the older man was steady, then picked up his duffel.

  “You asked why now. We didn’t know about you or the topaz brooch until Billie disappeared a few days ago with the same brooch found on your bedroom floor. The police made that connection, and from there, we were off and running.

  “We researched everything about your life and Rhona’s, visited your residence, and discovered an interesting link between you and Billie. You both have or had a strong interest in the Battle of New Orleans. Based on the comments she made the day she disappeared, we believed she was here. But since you haven’t seen her, I’m second-guessing our assumption.”

  “Just because I haven’t met her doesn’t mean she’s not here. There’s a chain of plantations on both sides of the mile-wide Mississippi. She could be at any one of them. At the top of the chain is the estate of Dr. William Flood, and at the foot is the home of Manuel Andry. You’ll have to visit all of them.”

  “We’ll do whatever we have to do to find her,” Rick said.

  “Since you just arrived, you haven’t met Marguerite Bonnard. Women from here to Charleston buy clothes at her dress shop. If Billie is here, Marguerite will know.”

  The name triggered Rick’s memory, but this Marguerite couldn’t possibly be the same woman who worked for Sophia in Paris and New York City twenty-four years ago. “How old is Marguerite?”

  “I don’t know. Forty, maybe. Why?”

  “One of my traveling companions might know her.”

  “She came to America with Thomas Jefferson and his family shortly after the start of the revolution. She lived in New York for many years before coming to New Orleans.”

  Rick chuckled. “Small world. It’s the same woman.”

  Fontenot shook his head with a hint of a smile. “I hope at a later date you’ll tell me the full story, but I’m not sure I could comprehend it at the moment.”

  “Over time, you’ll hear all the stories.”

  They sloshed through the mud and reached the next corner. “The topaz brooch was smoking in Rhona’s hand. I grabbed it from her and dropped it. I couldn’t help it, and I’ve cursed myself for that every day since we arrived. Even more, since Rhona became so ill. I should have held on to it, but it was like holding a live wire, and I had no idea of the consequences of letting go.”

  Rick assisted Fontenot up the two short steps to the boardwalk. “We thought that was the case. None of our brooches get that hot.”

  “Brooches?” Fontenot sucked in a long breath and blew it out as if gathering courage before asking, “How many do you have?”

  The number of
brooches the clan had in its possession was confidential, and Rick had no authority to share it. The evil force might know how many they had, but if it didn’t, the number wouldn’t come from him. “A few,” Rick said and left it at that.

  “So you can come and go as you please.”

  “We could, but we don’t. We only use them to rescue others.”

  Fontenot’s steps faltered, and Rick reached to steady him. “Others are stranded in the past like us?”

  “There may be others we don’t know about yet, but the rest are only temporarily stranded by a fickle brooch. Our experience has been that the brooches carry someone, usually a woman, into the past and then become unresponsive. We go back and speed up the process.” Rick left it at that for now. It was too early to share brooch lore with Fontenot. That would come later.

  “I’m still in shock over your appearance. I have to be careful in the way I tell Rhona. I don’t want to give her hope and have it snatched away.” Fontenot licked his lips, tore his eyes away, only to steal them back again. “I have to ask this… Are you one hundred percent positive that we’re going home?”

  Rick chuckled. “You’re the second traveler I’ve had the pleasure of telling, ‘I’ve come to take you home.’ I brought Amber Kelly Grant back from 1878 Colorado when her health was failing. She’s now a successful business owner, mother of two with another one on the way, and happily married to her soul mate, who happened to be the Pinkerton agent she met and fell in love with while in the past.”

  Tears filled Fontenot’s eyes. “So it’s true. We’re truly going home.” He put his hand to his face and wept, his entire body shaking. “I…don’t care about myself. But…going home will give Rhona…a fighting chance.”

  Tears stung the backs of Rick’s eyes. He put his arm around Fontenot’s shoulders and huddled with him to keep prying eyes away. When Fontenot stopped weeping, he dried his face with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry if my emotional outburst embarrassed you. I’m afraid I made quite a scene.” He blew his nose and tucked the handkerchief away in his coat pocket.